


five times delany interrupted what could have been the start and one time he didn't

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: 5 Times, DELANY!!!!!, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: what it says on the tin: 5 times delany interrupted what could have been the start of a whirlwind romance and 1 time he didn't.





	five times delany interrupted what could have been the start and one time he didn't

**Author's Note:**

> standard rpf rules apply

** _i._ **

“Oh, _no way_, Brad. A thousand year old egg?”

Brad grinned and waved the piece of salty, fermented egg in her face, offering it up to her. The egg had been soaking in a very particular, meticulously researched brine for months and it was finally ready for tasting. 

He’d called her over and she’d come over just as trustingly as she always did, looking between the chaos on his station and his the halved egg on his cutting board, a crease between her eyebrows and a question in the quirk of her mouth. 

Her face had scrunched rather fetchingly when he’d told her what it was he’d been up to the last few months, shaking her head and raising her hands, stepping back and laughing disbelieving. 

“C’mon, ole Half-Sour. You scared?”

“What? No! Brad—“

But it was too late, Brad was waving the egg at her and making soft cooing and clucking noises, flapping his arms like wings and doing his absolute best impression of a chicken. She shook her head, rolling her eyes and stepping away from the It’s Alive station.

“Oh, that’s mature,” she deadpanned, looking into the camera and staunchly ignoring the giant 6’4” man in front of her stomping his feet and clucking like a chicken. It should be ridiculous and embarrassing, but his natural charm and good nature made it fun and silly. Brad was like that—disarming and the exact distraction she often needed.

“One bite! That’s all I’m asking for here.”

“Get Chris to do it!”

“What, are you kidding? This’ll kill Chris, the ole super taster.”

“You’re really selling this to me.”

The cooing and clucking stopped and Claire swallowed hard as Brad pulled himself up to his full height and pulled out a secret weapon of his own. His blue eyes turned simultaneously bright and soft as he stopped joking and switched to sincerity, his normally chaotic focus fading away and focusing entirely on her.

It was the kind of focus that happened more and more around her and left her a little shaky, a little weak in the knees. 

“Please, Claire,” he said softly, pleadingly. “For me? I’ll even eat it with you. Same time. Lady and the Tramp style, if you want.”

She bit her lip and felt her cheeks flush as he hunched over and delicately took one end of the egg half between his teeth, waiting for her to take a bite out of the other end. Claire looked between Brad and the camera, wondering if this was really happen. 

God, Rapoport was going to have a field day with this. 

Unable to believe what she was about to do, trying not to think too hard about how close she was about to come with Brad’s face with his blue eyes and soft lips and—

“Woah! Leone! Century old eggs? _Gnarly._”

Claire laughed as Brad pulled the egg from his mouth and stood back up to his full height scowling. “_Delany.”_

She turned on her heel with a wave to the camera, leaving the two men to jibe at each other good-naturedly, as she returned to her station and the dough and rolling pin waiting for her attentions. 

** _ii._ **

The thing about arts and crafts projects in the kitchen is that, inevitably, the desire for bigger, sharper, scarier projects beckons. It’d been one thing to cut up the tines of forks, slash the metal mesh of a strainer, and fashion an extruder Twizzler maker with drilled metal skewers and hot glue.

And she’d been smart, too, putting safety precautions in place where necessary, such as safety goggles.

But she hadn’t accounted for how little traction the chef’s knife would have on the flour sifter she’d been repurposing and in less than a second and in a single downward motion, the sharp length of the blade slid across her palm.

“_Fuck!”_

The knife and sifter clattered to the kitchen surface as she grabbed at her palm and applied immediate pressure, already catching glimpse of a bright line of red blooming across her skin. 

Through the super sharp burst of pain clouding her brain, she registered Matt and Dan asking if she was okay, pushing forward clean kitchen towels but never putting down the camera. She only resents them a little for it, but she gets it. It’s a shallow cut, she can feel that and they must have been able to see it, too. Besides, this is good content.

She remembers her basic kitchen first aid and knows she needs to keep the pressure on and get herself over to the kitchen to rinse the cut and then head for the first aid station. It’d last been used by Molly for a wicked sheet pan burn. They’d have to reset their incidence count. 

Claire had taken less than two steps towards the sink when Brad showed up, blocking her path. 

“Christ, Claire. C’mere.”

Any protest from her had been cut off as he’d cradled her injured hand in his own larger one, carefully inspecting the cut and muttering under his breath. The sting of pain from the knife cut felt inexplicably soothed as Brad stroked a callused thumb over the edges of her cut and around to the inside of her wrist. 

“I’m fine,” she insisted, voice low as he tugged her towards the first aid station directly, already rambling about the dangers of leaving her unattended with her arts and crafts. But it felt nice to be cared for like this, all of his attention on her. 

Besides, there was something enchanting and mesmerizing about the sight of her hand in his, perfectly enveloped and cradled and protected. It was the kind of sight that she would never admit made her stomach lurch and her breath come out a little shaky. 

“Don’t think you’re gonna need stitches,” he told her, expertly poking and prodding at the cut which was already clotting, the bleeding mostly stopped. “But I don’t think you’re gonna be cuttin’ anything else up, Martha Stewart.”

He rifled through the first aid kit and pulled out the antibiotic gel and white gauze wrapping, carefully spreading the thick antibiotic over the cut and then gently wrapping her palm up safely, protecting the laceration from the rest of the kitchen. 

“You didn’t tell me you were a nurse in another life,” she teased, turning and showing the camera his excellent medical care skills. She turned back to him, legs swinging and dangling over the edge of the chair where her feet didn’t meet the floor. 

He leaned back against the ledge of the first aid station and packed away the supplies, erasing the ‘days since last incident’ number and reset it to zero with a wry look in her direction.

“_What?”_ she said in faux-indignation, peering up at him from under lowered lashes. “The arts and crafts part is—“

“The best partt. Yeah, I know, Claire. Just, y’know, maybe stick to some pipe cleaners or some shit, okay? Can’t go damaging our star baker or nothin’.”

She roller her eyes and ducked her head, feeling the blush spread up her neck and across her cheeks. Compliments from Brad, even the pointed, half-hearted ones, always meant something a little different, a little more. 

Changing the subject, she hopped off the stool. “Can I go now, Nurse Brad?”

He grinned at her, all sudden playfulness and reached for her hand. “Oh, I don’t know. My mom used to say no bump or bruise would heal unless you kissed it better.”

The oxygen seemed to leave the room as Claire stared at him, wondering if she misheard him. But his fingers were still wrapped warmly around her wrist and he was lifting her bandaged palm up to his lips, seemingly without thought. 

Her mind went into overdrive as she struggled to comprehend the situation she was in. This was _not_ something they did. This was the kind of casual, intimate contact they—well, _she_—tried very hard to avoid with him. Because it was a slippery slope, touching him. 

But she was saved from sliding down that slope as Delany joined them and slung an arm around her shoulders, casual and friendly. 

“Claire! Molly said you cut yourself! Arts and crafts?”

She laughed and tried not to feel too disappointed when Brad dropped her hand a hair’s breadth from his lips. He avoided her eyes and turned his attention to the bubbly, friendly red-head.

“_Delany!”_

Claire’s hand tingled for the rest of the day and she wasn’t entirely sure it was the result of her knife wound. 

** _iii._ **

The bar around the corner is a BA Test Kitchen favorite: strong cocktails, craft beer, and a low-key, retro environment that makes them feel like they’re in an updated version of Cheers. It’s a neighborhood bar that’s _theirs_ in a city where bars dot every corner and are all jockeying to be the next big thing. 

They’ve knocked back a few and Morocco, Delany, and Carla are huddled together in their normal booth talking about the finer points of New York City bagels and schmear. Molly and Andy are at the bar talking to the newest bartender about cocktail trends of the year and are leaning over the wooden bar to poke and prod at the selection of fresh herbs and citrus.

Brad and Claire, however, are paired off as they almost always are, in their own corner of the bar. Their _preferred_ corner: the pool table. Because for as amazing as Claire Saffitz is at almost everything—seriously, he’s convinced the universe really does open up for her—she is completely inept when it comes to billiards. 

He watches as she drains the last of her old fashioned and sets the empty tumbler down on the bar table, plucking the cue stick from his hands and trips her way to the pool table. They’re not quite drunk, but a little more than buzzed and fast approaching tipsy. It’s a mellow place to be. Everything feels loose and easy. 

“Easy, Claire,” he mutters, reaching forward to steady her with a hand on the small of her back, his hand large enough that his fingers curl around her hip. The look she gives him is heated, indignation making her pull away and clutch the cue stick to her chest. 

“I’ve got this,” she insists, leaning over and awkwardly holding the stick in her hand, squinting and closing one eye to line up her shot against the white cue ball. 

“You're gonna scratch,” he tells her in a sing-song voice before taking a few large gulps of the beer in his hand. 

She frowns and stands up, shoulders pulled back in the way that he knows he’s about to hear a defensive line of bullshit from her mouth. “It’s because I’m left handed,” she states matter-of-factly. “The whole world is biased against us. If these things were meant for someone with my dexterous preferences—“

He snorts. Only Claire could use a phrase like _dexterous preferences_ after the number of drinks they’ve had.

He raises his voice and cuts her off. “Claire, knock it off. It’s a _stick._ Nothing left or right handed about it.”

The way she pouts and rolls her eyes is _definitely_ not adorable and endearing, he reminds himself. He finishes off the last few pulls of his lukewarm beer and sets it down beside her empty old fashioned and takes his place behind her, gesturing for her to resume her position hunched over the pool table.

She slipped the cue stick between the fingers of her left hand and looked back at him over her shoulder.“Alright, now what?”

He licked his lips and decided he was just drunk enough for this. Stepping forward, he leaned down so his chest was brushing over her back. He slid his hands down her arms until they settled over her hands on the cue stick, carefully rearranging her grip into just the right position. 

Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion, each gesture lazy and deliberate. He could smell her hair—citrusy and vanilla—and feel the way she widened her stance so his leg could slip between hers so he could press himself more fully against her, bracketing her with one arm around her on the pool table and one arm covering hers. 

“Okay, Saffitz, this is what you’re gonna do. You’re pull back with one arm and you’re gonna let your other hand be your guide. You don’t move this hand at all, ya hear me? But your hit is gonna be all in your hips, okay?”

He let his fingertips drift over her jean-clad hips and tugged slightly, gesturing for her to rock back and then forward into the momentum of the hit on the cue ball. He thought he heard her suck in a breath, but he couldn’t be sure. He was too focused on the warmth of her hip radiating through the fabric of her jeans.

“And most important,” he said, voice low and husky and lips close to the shell of her ear. “You gotta keep both eyes open.”

She turned from where she was hunched over the pool table, their hands casually intertwined on the green felt of the pool table. Her lips were quirked into a soft smile, as if she was getting ready to fire back some sharp-tongued retort, when the realization of their situation hit her. 

The smile slid off her face as she took in how close their faces were. She licked her lips and there was no mistaking the way her eyes flicked to his mouth. His hand tightened over hers in anticipation and he leaned forward, tilting his head. He could practically taste the orange and bitters on her lips when they were interrupted by a slap on the pool table.

“Okay, Leone, I got dibs on next game. _Oh.”_ Alex looked between the two of them as they hastily broke away, Claire standing and cradling the cue stick against her shoulder as she tucked her hair behind her ear and avoided everyone’s eyes.

Brad rubbed a hand over his face and groaned, watching helplessly as Claire passed Delany the cue stick and made her excuses. Alex waved goodbye at her before turning to his buddy.

“What? Did I interrupt something?”

“Delany,” Brad growled. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Brad missed every single shot and thought about how much he wished he knew what an old fashioned tasted like on Claire’s tongue the rest of the night. 

** _iv._ **

The near-kiss is forgotten, never spoken of again and explained away by a few drinks too many. They slip back into their normal patterns of playful bickering and insinuations that their friendship is like a marriage. It’s normal. Mostly.

Which is how Brad ends up at Claire’s place on a Saturday morning, evaluating her countertop structure, measuring and marking, and deciding if she can actually replace the shitty laminate countertops with stainless steel on the IKEA price she’s hoping for. 

He’s cheap labor, at least. She cooks him breakfast and offers him full access to her liquor cabinet. Brad wants to tell her that the only reward he needs is spending his off-time with her, but he’s not sure he can pull of saying it as casually as he needs to for it to be okay. 

“You know, this may actually go a little faster if you, I don’t know, _helped._”

Claire grins at him from her position where she’s sitting on the kitchen counters that he’s supposed to be measuring. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that? You’re the professional, Brad. Mr. Handyman, right? I’ve heard the stories. I’d just be in the way, mess things up.”

He gives her a deadpan stare, measuring tape hanging limply from his fingertips as he tucks the pencil behind his ear and tosses the notebook with his measurements and estimates on the countertop. “Claire, I don’t think you’ve messed anything up in your entire life.”

“_Brad,”_ she says indignantly, leaning forward. “I mess up all the time, very publicly, for like millions of people to watch.”

He shrugs at her, grinning boyishly. It’s just too easy to wind her up sometimes and it helps that he knows all the right buttons to press to make her exasperated, to make her curse his name and mutter half-formed conversations with him under her breath. 

“So, what I’m thinking here, Claire, is that you’re not gonna get the stainless steel countertops you want at the price you want. Your structure here just isn’t sound. It’s currently built for lightweight laminate tops, not the heavy duty stuff you’re looking for.”

She frowns and slumps forward, burying her face in her hands with a groan. “Dammit,” she sighs. For a moment, he wishes he could offer to build her an entire kitchen from the ground up on his dime. He would. For her. 

It’s starting to become a problem just how much he would do for her. 

Maybe she senses the urge in him to be her Superman, but she looks at him with hope in her eyes and smiles a slow, Cheshire-like smile that makes him hot under the collar. “Brad,” she says in a sweet, saccharine voice. “Are you _sure_ you can’t—“

“Claire,” he tells her sincerely. “If I could, I would.” He walks over to where she sits on the kitchen countertop and takes up his usual position beside her, leaning down and resting on the countertop on his forearms. He covers her hand with his and squeezes gently. “Seriously, I would. But you don’t have the capability here to—“

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, holding up her free hand. “No, I know. I know you would.” Opening her eyes, she grins at him and squeezes their hands again. “Thanks for coming over and at least trying, Brad. Seriously.” 

A thoughtful, serious expression crosses her face and he fights the urge to smooth the furrow forming between her eyebrows. Her eyes drop to where their hands are still pressed together and she nudges his fingers until their fingers are woven together. He wonders if she can feel the pulse thundering beneath his skin at her touch.

“You’re always there for me,” she says softly, lifting her eyes from their joined hands to meet his gaze. “I don’t thank you enough for that.”

He swallows hard and tries his damnedest to not just press forward and slot his mouth over hers and show her how much he wants to be there for her always. Hell, maybe he should. Maybe that’s the best way to let a gal like Claire Saffitz know you’re head-over-heels for her. 

The words are bubbling up int he back of his throat, long overdue, when his cellphone rings loudly and obnoxiously from his back pocket, shattering the moment. She winces and withdraws her hand from his, running a hand through her gray-streaked hair and avoiding his eyes. 

When he sees _Delany_ flash across the screen of his cell, he’s never wanted to throw a cell phone down the waste disposal more.

** _v._ **

“So, that was Delany,” Brad announces, slipping his cell phone into his back pocket. “Looks like literally everyone bailed on us, Claire.”

New York is turning cold with the season change and she shivers as a gust of wind blows at them, ruffling the ends of her hair and making her pull her beanie down over her ears. It was supposed to be the BA Test Kitchen’s monthly dinner out. They’d pick some overpriced, fancy schmancy (Brad’s words) restaurant on the New York Times’ Hot List and treat themselves to one of the luxuries of New York’s culinary scene. 

Except Carla’s and Chris’ kiddos had some school thing, Molly had sworn Tuna was missing her lately and she just couldn’t leave tonight, Andy had a date, and Delany got pulled into a last minute meeting at the office that was going to run late.

Which left Brad and Claire standing in front of their overpriced restaurant with a pending reservation and a decision on their hands.

She thought about all of the near misses and almosts and maybes over the last few months, thought about all the times she’d wondered what it would be like to date a man like Brad Leone, wondered if they’d survive outside of work. 

Now was her chance.

Smiling brightly at him, she nudged her shoulder against his (well, what part of it she could reach, anyway), and gestured at the front door. “Well let’s go then.”

Any fears she may have had about their ability to have lasting, stimulating conversation one-on-one is almost immediately allayed. They order wine (“Claire, please, I’m beggin’ you. You gotta order it. Don't make me say the names out loud.”) and appetizers that come in too-small portions on too-small plates. 

She complains with a groan about stupid food trends and he laughs and leans in and tells her about some chef he used to work with who _insisted_ they plate every dish with a pair of tweezers and microgreens. 

He likes the way she wrinkles her nose when she laughs and endeavors to make it happen as much as possible that night. 

But as the food comes, course after course, and the wine glasses are topped up generously by the attentive waitstaff, their conversation drifts easily from topic to topic. He tells her about the bands he used to host at his shared farmhouse and she tells him that a farmhouse like that is her dream retirement home. They talk about families and vacations and kitchen and chef horror stories. She tells him about growing up in St. Louis and her days at Harvard. He tells her he’s so damn proud of her, that she’s amazing. 

She leans forward and lets her hair fall enticingly over her forehead and he itches to reach over and tuck it back behind her ear. His foot brushes hers beneath the table once, twice, three times, grinning when she shoots him a smile and nudges his foot right back until they’re all out playing _fucking footsie_ under the table. 

Her cheeks are flushed red and he’s got a bit of color high on his cheeks as well, courtesy of the wine and the company. If this was a date—and it’s starting to feel more and more like one—he would cover her hand with his over the table. It’s the kind of classic move he’s seen a dozen or so times in his favorite romcoms (he’s a romantic at heart, sue him).

He’d take her hand and stroke his thumb over the back of it and tell her how beautiful she is, how he’s always thought so, and how glad he actually is that it’s just the two of them. And if the universe was smiling down on him—like it must always be when he’s with Claire—she’d curl her fingers around his hand and tell him she feels the same and can they _please_ get out of here and grab some pizza because it’s been ten courses and she’s still so hungry. 

He’s about to press forward and take her hand, can see the scenario playing out perfectly, when Alex Delany’s shows up at their table, pulling up a chair and grinning at them both, unwinding the scarf from around his neck. 

“Hey, guys! Meeting let out early, so I could join after all! Woah, swanky place, right?”

Brad wants to jam the fork into his eye. Or Delany’s. 

The universe is not smiling down on him. 

** _and one time he didn't_ **

Finishing dinner up with Delany and Claire isn’t that bad. Delany is actually one of the good guys, indomitably cheerful and affable, and welcoming to everyone. He’s got a good sense of what it is to be a New Yorker and he’s got almost as many stories about the city’s restaurant scene as Brad has about, well, anything. 

At the end of the night, though, Delany hugs them both, wishes them a good night, and hops in a cab uptown as Brad and Claire take the subway downtown towards her apartment.

“Brad,” she says with fond exasperation. “I’m a big girl. I don’t need an escort home.”

He shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Maybe I just wanna sneak in a few extra minutes with my favorite person.”

She bites her lip at that and nods. “Yeah, okay. I can live with that.”

The subway ride and walk back to her apartment feels a lot like a pressure cooker, slowly simmering and building, building, building. Maybe it’s been like this for a while now, each brush of hands, each smile, each piece of learned information bubbling and frothing under the right conditions. 

Because the subway is rocky and rickety in the only way a New York subway can be and when she stumbles into his arms, unsteady on her feet, and he steadies her with a hand on her hip, she doesn’t move away. She steps closer and curls her fingers into the front of his jacket, staring up at him shyly.

He grins at her—the kind of grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners—and tightens his fingers on her hip like they belong there. Like she belongs there in his arms. Maybe she does. 

The short walk from the subway stop to her apartment stoop is thick with tension and their hands brush with each stride. She teases him about slowing down so she can keep up with his long legs and he offers to carry her the rest of the way if she’s struggling so much. 

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

And then the night culminates in the way that all first dates do: Standing face-to-face in front of her apartment entrance, shuffling feet, and awkward, inane conversation about having a great time—anything to keep the night going just a little bit longer. 

“_So,”_ he says, dragging out the sound. Christ, there was a time he used to be good at this, used to know exactly what to say to charm the hell out of ladies everywhere. But this woman leaves him speechless and befuddled and like a fish out of water. 

“So,” she teases, mimicking his tone. He flounders, wonders if it’s okay to touch her the way he wants to, when Claire—as usual—takes matters into her own hands. She always gets what she wants, after all. 

“Oh, come here,” she says with an exasperated huff. She pushes herself up onto her tip toes and wraps her arms around his neck and tugs him down, their lips finally pressing together in their first kiss.

It’s like unleashing the lid of a pressure cooker.

He groans and wraps his arms around her waist, deepening the kiss and swiping his tongue out over the seam of her lips. She sighs into his touch and shuffles closer, kissing him back with fervor. Her fingertips find themselves buried in the curls peeking out from under his black beanie and his hand slips beneath her coat and shirt, pressing against the warmth of her lower back. 

She nips at his bottom lip and pulls away, breathless and panting. Her eyes flutter open to find him looking down at her with the softest expression, awed and disbelieving.

  
“Hey,” he says with a grin, leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together. She laughs, giddy and exhilarated, and kisses him again softly, once, twice, three times. Just because she can. Because she wants to.

“Hi,” she answers back, hands slipping down over his shoulders to settle against his chest where she curls her fingers into the soft fabric of his coat. “Come inside?”

“Yeah, okay.”

She beams at him, the kind of beamingsmile that makes him think about cherry chapstick and New Rochelle balls. Her hand slips into his and their hands intertwine, palms pressed together, and she leads him up to her apartment door. 

Before she yanks him inside and helps him out of his coat and gets him pushed up against the door, her body rolling against his in soft, quiet demand for _more_, he turns his phone off.

No way does Alex Delany interrupt this. Not this time.

The universe is finally smiling on him. And why wouldn’t it? He’s with Claire Saffitz.

Finally.


End file.
